


Overboard

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when the love of your life shows up in your apartment after three years of thinking he's dead? You punch the bastard in the face, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overboard

**Author's Note:**

> This work, a sequel to my story "At the Edge," was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2012 when I was eighteen. I'm crossposting it here along with all of my other work.

"Stupid bloody machines…" John muttered, mounting the steps that led up to the flat. He had a plastic, grocery-filled Tesco bag clutched in each hand. There was tea, jam, milk, soup, and other essentials. Gone were the days when milk constantly ran low or jam mysteriously vanished.

John missed those days.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called.

"Yup, thanks Mrs. Hudson. Just getting the groceries."

Each step up the stairs was harder than the last, and not physically. A few days ago John had visited Molly at St. Bart's, where they'd had lunch. She'd said something that had startled him, although he doubted the poor girl knew she'd thrown him for such a loop.

"Some miracles take time, John."

Of course, Molly couldn't know what he'd said--or rather, begged--at Sherlock's grave. He hadn't visited the grave since that one day. It just made it all too real. Molly was a sweet, caring girl, and was probably just saying the first thing that came into her head.

But still her words haunted John, giving him a kind of hope that he didn't understand. He wanted, so badly, to believe her. Despite his aching, empty heart, he couldn't stop himself from imagining that Sherlock was there, just on the other side of the door, lounging on the sofa in his dressing gown… there, now, he was at the door. All he had to do was open it and Sherlock would be there, asking him how the shopping trip went…

"How was the shopping?"

John dropped the bags on the floor, his mouth falling open.

He was wearing his black wool coat with the turned-up collar and his dark purple scarf, rather than the dressing gown, but he was still there. Lounging on the sofa. Mop of dark ringlets, marble-pale skin, damn cheekbones, piercing eyes and thin, Cupid's bow mouth. John ran his eyes over the body. Tall, lanky, almost like a rag doll when relaxed, with long delicate fingers and bony elbows and knees…

Yes, it was Sherlock Holmes. Alive. In his--formerly their--flat.

"Did I startle you?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head ever so slightly and squinting his eyes a trifle. "Of course I did. My apologies. I should have accounted for your shock despite Molly's message. I assume she told you?"

"She… you… what…" John could barely get his mouth to obey his brain's commands. The thing just kept flopping like a fish and generally gaping.

"I truly am sorry for the deception," Sherlock said, getting up and approaching him, "But it was necessary for–"

It was really him. Alive and well, and acting as though nothing had happened.

John pulled back his arm and struck Sherlock in the face. Just to the left of his nose, in fact. Sherlock reeled back a little, stunned. He brought his hand up to inspect for damage.

"You… bastard," John seethed. "You bloody asshole. What the hell were you up to?"

"Disabling Moriarty's network," Sherlock said. The  _of course_  went unspoken, but it was implied. It was always implied. "That led me to several other networks that weren't run by him, exactly, but connected to him, so I had to get rid of those as well… I've caused the death of quite a lot of criminals by now. Interesting, isn't it? I suppose I should feel ashamed or guilty or something. But anyway, it's all finished now, so I've come back."

John's breathing was a lot heavier than normal, as if he had just finished a dash through the streets of London. "And you couldn't think to let me know you were alive?" He demanded. "A simple postcard or something? I thought you were  _dead_ , Sherlock. We all did! Your brother's felt so guilty that he's sent me bloody cheques every month! And you just couldn't be bothered to let me know, could you?

"I  _mourned_  you, Sherlock. But of course you don't care about sentimental stuff like that, do you?"

Had he been a bit less furious, John would have remembered that he'd spent a great deal of time beating himself up over the last thing he'd said to Sherlock before the detective had ended upon the roof. He'd called him a machine, insulted him, and yelled at him, only to watch the man throw himself to his death. Or, so he'd thought. He'd lain awake at nights, his chest burning with guilt and unshed tears, but now that Sherlock was actually  _alive_  all that was pushed aside by what he felt was a gross betrayal.

Sherlock, for his part, was staring into John's face. It was a face that he'd missed beyond measure, despite having a plethora of memories in his mind palace to sift through. The memories couldn't sufficiently replace the reality. Now John's eyes were red and a little too shiny, and his breathing was labored. He looked ten years older.

 _He's trying not to cry,_  Sherlock realized.

"Does this… does this mean that you no longer…" Sherlock paused. He couldn't admit that he knew John loved him. John would grow even angrier and possibly never speak to him again. "That you no longer consider me your friend?"

"Of course I do, you idiot, but that's not the point!" John shouted. "The point is that you let me go through all that pain when you could have–"

"I had no choice, John, don't you understand?" Sherlock shouted right back. "Moriarty had snipers on you, on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well. I'm just lucky that he didn't have one watching Molly as well. I had to do it or you all would die. You would die, John. I couldn't let that happen."

John snorted, but his face softened. "Right, then," he said. "Moriarty was a bastard, sorry he put you in that position, I'll be sympathetic about it later. Why didn't you say anything afterwards?"

"I didn't know if he had accomplices, people who would come out of the shadows and hurt you if they discovered the truth. I wasn't even sure that I would come out of it alive, that my plan would even work."

"How  _did_  you make it work?" John asked. "I checked your pulse and…"

"Did you?" Sherlock asked. "Right away?"

John frowned. "Well, yes…"

"You ran right over and checked my pulse?"

John started to speak, stopped, and shook his head. "No. As a matter of fact, a cyclist hit me before I got to you. People kept trying to pull me away, crowding around… I think I must've been pretty out of it. Grief and shock and all."

Sherlock gave his tight-lipped smile, and John's eyes widened before he squeezed them shut. "Oh God. You planned all that didn't you."

"Homeless network, John, when will you learn?" Sherlock asked.

John glowered.

"Listen, John, I know that you're angry, but you must understand that I did it for you. I had to keep you safe," Sherlock explained, a little desperately. Didn't he see? Didn't he know? He felt like it was written all over his face but John was so slow on the uptake at times…

"For me?" John snorted. "You never do anything for anyone else, Sherlock."

"Oh come off it, John!" Sherlock snapped, losing all patience. "I'm shocked that someone who has managed to understand me so well, and stuck with me despite all that I've put you through, hasn't managed to figure it out yet!"

"Figure out what? What the hell are you--never mind. Forget it," John finished with a growl. "I need to go for a walk. Get some air."

Sherlock stepped in between John and the door, closing it and getting right into John's face.

"Sherlock, I'm warning you…" John said in his no-nonsense voice.

"Honestly, John, you have many commendable virtues and you are an excellent help on cases--more so than you realize--but my need to explain things that should be obvious is and always has been a bit grating," Sherlock said with the air of a martyr.

"I swear, I will punch you again…"

"I love you, John."

John was almost certain that the lower half of his jaw hit the floor. He goggled at Sherlock. "I… you…" He shook his head. "What?"

"I said I love you. It's very simple, actually," Sherlock said. "I would explain it but that would take a while--there's a surprisingly long list of reasons as to why."

John looked around, searching for a pink elephant or something equally ludicrous. This must be a dream. It was the only explanation. Sherlock Holmes, alive and declaring his love for John? Had to be a dream.

"I see that you don't believe me," Sherlock said. John turned his attention back to the man.

"Damn right I don't. You're 'married to your work,' you scorn sentiment, you don't understand when people do things for emotional reasons, and–"

Sherlock decided that a physical demonstration would probably be the best way to get his point across at this juncture, and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, pulling him in and kissing him.

For someone who had never had relations of any kind with another human being, the consulting detective was pretty damn good at second base. John had made out with… well, it was probably about a hundred girls… he had  _earned_  that 'Three Continents' nickname, damn it… and instinctively responded, grabbing the labels of Sherlock's coat and engaging their tongues. He was still angry, make no mistake about that, so it was a little on the fierce side, with some nipping and biting but all in all, it was everything he'd always fantasized about with Sherlock.

It doesn't matter how brilliant of a detective you are--everyone needs to breathe. So after a good minute or two, they broke apart. John tried to pull away but Sherlock kept him pinned against him, pressing their foreheads together. He had to bend his head a little due to the difference in their heights, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

"I love you, John Watson," Sherlock breathed. "You and only you. You make me feel. You make me understand. You make me human."

John trembled slightly. He could not believe what he was hearing. This was… this was more than he'd dared to dream about. He'd had plenty of wanks dedicated to Sherlock, oh yes, and he'd been helplessly in love with the man since, oh, he'd say the pool incident, but he had never imagined Sherlock returning his feelings. He knew that it was hopeless, and he'd resigned himself to it. But now Sherlock was telling him everything that John or any person could ever hope to hear from the person they loved.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

John realized that his eyes were still closed. He opened them, gazing into the deep multicolored depths of Sherlock's eyes. They were so dark that they were never exactly one color; mysterious and deep, like the man whose soul they reflected.

"I love you too, you bastard," John muttered.

"I know."

John was going to make him pay for that later… just… after this make out session. He lunged forward, capturing Sherlock's mouth again, making him stumble backwards against the door. John ignored his partner's  _oomph_  of surprise and continued to explore his mouth, demanding and ferocious and accepting no quarter.

"God… imagined this… too much…" He gasped whenever one of them came up for air. Sherlock's hands were everywhere, his musician's fingers working along John's skin, massaging heat and sexual electricity into his cells.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. It was both an agreement that yes, he had thought of this as well, and a perfect description of how they were both feeling. He slowly moved his hands down John's body, unfastening his belt.

John practically jumped. "Wha- Sherlock, are you… have you…?"

"I think you know exactly what I'm doing, yes I'm certain, and no I have not," Sherlock replied evenly. "Are you suggesting that we stop?"

"No, God no," John replied quickly.

"Good, because I don't think that I could even if I wanted to. Which I do not." How the man could sound so calm in the middle of this was something John found both infuriating and so, so very predictable.

The next few minutes found no room for talking, but somehow they managed to get their respective clothes off; John's jumper, undershirt, jeans, shoes and socks. Sherlock lost his coat, button-down shirt, scarf, trousers, shoes and socks.

Sherlock pushed John backwards, which led to John tripping on one of their shirts, which in turn led to him falling onto the floor. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, as his allowed him to slip on top of the doctor. John groaned at the feeling of skin sliding together. He reached a hand around to grip the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him down for kiss after kiss after kiss. Sherlock reached down and grabbed at John, who arched up violently at the touch.

"Ah! You can't…  _Sherlock_ …"

Of course the bastard would be exceptionally good at this, just like everything else, despite his blasted lack of experience. John cursed, sliding his hands down Sherlock's back. He grabbed Sherlock's ass, pushing him down so that their cocks slid together. Sherlock pushed out a hiss through clenched teeth. His hands, which were at John's waist, trembled a little.

"John…" His voice was a little hoarse. It was like when he was on the rooftop, only better, because he was wracked with pleasure and not with pain…

"You like that?" John couldn't help but chuckle a little. The times he got the upper hand over Sherlock were so rare, he had to enjoy them when he could.

" _Yes_ … agai–" Sherlock cut himself off with a groan as John repeated the action.

"God…" The doctor gasped, letting his head fall back onto the hardwood floor. A part of him observed that he was going to be quite stiff in the morning because of this. Most likely his shoulder. Fortunately the rest of him didn't care and ignored the stupid voice of reason.

Words quickly abandoned them, and the more they rocked together the more out of control Sherlock became, his entire slender frame shaking as hot chills of pleasure wracked his body. John was able to maintain a small measure of control over himself, being more experienced, but this was different then anything he'd ever done before. This was new and, he'd dare say,  _better_ , because this was Sherlock.

Again and again they moved together, shifting and changing the angle, their movements, when needed, rocking and arching and moving together. It was a little uncoordinated and on the sloppy side of things but  _God_  it was good, so good, until it was too good and neither could hold it in and…

Explosions, earthquakes, feverish shakes and shivers, tearing the body apart and rebuilding it all again in fire and live wires and quivering flesh. Stiff and fluid, all at once, the mind everywhere and nowhere, projected to the far corners of the universe and surrounded by stars, yet very much there, in the moment, feeling every teeny bit of information the senses took in.

When they finally returned to themselves--or their senses stopped flooding their minds and allowed them to actually filter and make sense of the information their brains were receiving, as Sherlock would point out--they were in a jumbled heap on the floor, their limbs belonging to neither and both of them, their skin so sweaty and hot it had almost melted and fused together.

For a moment, nothing but labored breathing filled the flat. Then John huffed.

"Sherlock, gotta clean up," he muttered.

Sherlock made no attempt to move. "You have a rather annoying obsession with cleanliness, John." He curled up like a gigantic cat against the blonde man. "I see no point in moving at the moment. I am quite content here."

"Yeah, well, you're about ten years younger and weren't in the army, so gerroff," John replied.

Sherlock made a sigh that would have been the envy of any Christian martyr and stood. John looked up at him, watching how the late afternoon sun (finally managing to break through the near-constant clouds) made Sherlock's skin glow oh so faintly.

"Well, John? Didn't you want to get up?" Sherlock asked.

John glared at him but got to his feet and began to clean up the spilled groceries, rumpled clothes and, of course, the not-so-innocent stickiness that littered the floor.

To his surprise and pleasure, Sherlock helped.

* * *

They were lounging together on the sofa. John sitting up with one arm draped over the back, and Sherlock lying down, his head in John's lap. Sherlock was wearing his trademark dressing gown, and John a pair of pajama bottoms and his comfiest jumper. John ran his other hand through Sherlock's hair. Every so often the detective would make a sound that was strangely akin to purring.

There was the sound of small, slightly heeled feet, and Mrs. Hudson bustled in. "I just thought you sounded very tired earlier today, John, so I thought I'd make you a nice cup of--oh, hello Sherlock!" She interrupted herself, smiling happily. "You know, I thought you might not really be… oh, but John was so upset, you have no idea."

John cleared his throat. "Um, Mrs. Hudson…"

The landlady waved her hand at him. "I always expect the unexpected with Sherlock, dear. No use making a fuss."

John was actually going to mention the new relationship status he and Sherlock had, but realized that their current position on the sofa probably gave that away. He was surprised that she wasn't saying anything, but then again…

"Oh, and are you two going to make it official now?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Because I don't mind admitting that Lestrade stands to make quite a lot of money if you two do, and he's  _such_  a gentlemen I'd rather see him win then that chav of a lieutenant he has… did you know she's sleeping with a married man? Can you believe it? Morals of girls these days, I tell you…"

John gaped at her as she continued to bustle around the kitchen. "Did you know about this?" He asked the man in his lap.

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "Although I didn't tell you for fear of upsetting you. You clung to your heterosexuality quite fiercely in the first few months of our partnership."

John closed his eyes and groaned. But he did have Sherlock now, all of him--something that he could never have imagined at the start of the day. He supposed that a bit of ribbing from the Yard and Mrs. Hudson's assumptions were a small price to pay for that.


End file.
